| The Address |
| Summary: | Jameson addresses the ship. |
| Date: | 05/01/2013 |
| Related Logs: | Warday |
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| CIC |
| The Combat Information Center is the tactical heart of the Orion. This CIC is designed in a circular formation, the Admiral apparently a fan of the classical set-up. Dead center are a set of large monitors suspended from the ceiling with DRADIS readings as well as other vital shipboard information. Under this is a small map table outlining current plots and positions. The table has a built-in phone as well as smaller displays as to critical damage reports. Both port and starboard other watch stations are set at all times, in two rows of tiers like stadium seating, one above the other. Each station has a purpose — Helm, Weapons, Communications, Electronic Warfare, Damage Control, and further tactical monitoring. More displays and banks of computer monitors line the walls. This area is heavily guarded by Marines at all hours of the day and night. |
| 05 JAN 2005 |
The overhead speakers send their flat tone of address before that familiar drawl of the Old Man begins slowly and quietly. “Officers and enlisted of the Orion, this is Rear Admiral Jameson. I imagine by now that most of you all have heard about what happened on the Deck early this morning. You heard about our visitors. I’m pretty sure most of you on the Deck have seen the Raptor and its condition. You’ve probably heard rumors that the Colonies are under attack. That there is a war on. Allow me to go ahead and make an official comment on those rumors: They are true. The Cylons have returned en masse.” He keeps a hot mic open, letting the silence linger for four seconds. The relaxed, subtle enthusiasm of the cowboy seems to have faded from him and there's something very dark underneath.
“We put a Raptor back to the Colonies to confirm that there is a massive attack underway and they didn’t find on-going, massive fleet battles. They didn’t record minutes of dialogue between squadrons of Vipers. What they heard was a lot of electronic gasps of breath. Distress beacons, battlegroups being taken out, and a lot of silence. We have every reason to believe that this is a Cylon attack against our homes and that it has obliterated our fleet. There is evidence of nuclear detonations as well, both in space and eyewitness accounts of what was seen on one of the colonies. We also have reason to believe that the government has been neutralized.” There’s another pause as a piece of paper can be heard rustling. The man stops short of sounding sad, but there’s a heaviness to his voice as if he were reading a death sentence. “When an Admiral leads a clandestine task force away from the colonies for an extended period, the President writes what is called a ‘Letter of Last Intent’ and is to be opened in the event that the government is no longer functional or something catastrophic has happened to the Cyrannus System. They contain the final wishes of the President of the Twelve Colonies to the Task Force Flag Admiral. I’ve opened my letter.” There’s another rustle of the paper. “I’m going-“ and Jameson goes quiet with a rather disagreeable sigh. There's frustration there but he tries to keep it restrained. “I’m going to read the letter to you all now.”
“Rear Admiral Jameson, when the plans for Nomad were lain down to me in a meeting with the Chief of Naval Operations I knew what I was looking at. Admiral Shinseki waxed about the Directive as a broad, clandestine plan to set up a cradle of humanity. It was a poetic attempt at putting luster on something that was not, to my mind, palatable. We were talking about colonizing a new planet, but the plans specifically called for a Presidential Bunker and a naval weapons storage facility. I knew President Devon was probably sold on the idea with having a personal bunker, but I am not her. Or, as of this letter’s reading, was. There were never any illusions in my mind. Nomad’s intent was always to create a safehouse. A secret place where humanity’s government might carry on. Let me be plain, Admiral. Nomad, under my administration, was never about the government. Its about the people. My wishes are as follows:
“Your battlegroup is to hold position in the system you were initially sent to. You will guard the project and carry on humanity and protect it by whatever means necessary. I require only that you confirm that humanity or the government has met whatever fate has brought you to read this letter. Do not return to the Colonies in force. Ensure the survival of our people and our way of life. Carry our history and our lessons. You have an outstanding cross-section of our peoples, Admiral. Help them thrive.
“Your first order of business is to-“ and that is as far as Jameson gets. Silence hangs there. Five seconds. Seven. Eight. Did the mic cut out? The speakers? Then someone in the background can be heard to ask ‘sir?’ That seems to get a response.
“You know something?" The Admiral's voice comes back terse and clipped. "According to the UCMJ and our oaths, we’re legally obligated to follow the orders of the officers appointed over us and defend the Articles of Colonization. Adar is not an officer of the Navy or Marines, nor has he ever been. These are our homes. These are our families.” The mic clicks off for a moment, then comes back. “This enemy seeks to destroy our way of life and very likely our entire race. No, I’m afraid we aren’t going to sit by and recon our civilization being leveled.” The mic must fall away because his voice becomes a bit distant to the speakers. “Clarke, what’s the wing readiness look like? Still green?” There is a brief pause but a man in the background can be heard to confirm it. “Good.” His voice comes back stronger, bolder. That twang is in full force. “All squadron commanders brief for scramble and imminent enemy action. Marines, I need a strike team assembled on the Deck in thirty minutes. Weps, I want every gun manned, hot, and ready. Damage Control teams standby. Orion, we’re going after the President or his successor at the Avery Hall." The capital building and home of the government. "Maintain Condition One. This is not an exercise. We jump in sixty minutes and the clock starts… now.” The mic goes dead with a click. Around the ship, the sound of boots slamming the deck can already be heard as people scramble.